Yesterday, the world lost a rock icon. But in Birmingham, we lost one of our own. Our loudest, wildest, most outrageous son. And yet—somehow—our most grounded, too.
Ozzy Osbourne wasn’t just the Prince of Darkness. He was the unofficial mayor of Birmingham, the global ambassador of Brummie pride, and a walking anthem to being gloriously, defiantly yourself.
He carried our city with him wherever he went, through every stage dive, every TV appearance, every guitar riff that shook stadium walls from LA to Tokyo.
I first saw Ozzy not on stage, but on the school field.
Among all the dads in tweed jackets and Barbours cheering on their kids at sports matches, there stood Ozzy… in a long, black leather coat, hair like a lion, cheering just as proudly as the rest.
While everyone else’s dads looked like geography teachers, Ozzy looked like he’d either just walked off a stage or out of a vampire film. And yet, there he was.. present, proud, supportive. Different. Gloriously so.
He didn’t try to blend in. He never could. And thank God for that. Even in a sea of countryside beige, he was unapologetically Ozzy—and that was the first time I realised how powerful it is to simply be who you are.
I went to school with his first wife Thelma’s children. My first interaction with Ozzy’s eldest daughter Jess, is burned into my memory. I was in the school dinner queue with my friends, when this pretty older girl came marching over. My heart leapt. Jess Osbourne was talking to me. And then she said: “Claire Bullivant, if you flick your hair one more time, I’m going to come and cut it off.” I was stunned. Almost cried. But I was also a little bit honoured. Jess Osbourne knew my name. My friends were mightily impressed.
Of course I never quite forgave her… but what a moment. And I did become great friends with her brother Louis.
Louis was everything you’d expect from Ozzy’s son… funny, wild, a little dangerous to know. I was the goody-goody. Louis was the kid who once lost my dad’s brand new dinner jacket and threw up in my parents’ laundry basket. But he was endlessly fun, deeply kind, and always made me laugh. We stayed close over the years, even when life took us to opposite sides of the world.
When I moved to LA to work as a journalist, I kept bumping into Osbournes. Loui’s step-siblings Kelly, Jack and Aimee were sharp, funny, warm and mixed in a lot of the same circles I did. Sharon? The loveliest woman in any room. And then through Billy Morrison, Ozzy’s best mate and our very first guest on my podcast Brits in the Wood, I finally met the man himself.
It was at Billy’s art show in Tower Records on Sunset. Caroline Feraday (my co-host) couldn’t make it, so I brought my friend Leilani Dowding. That night turned into British rock royalty bingo. In fact it was there Leilani ended up meeting her fiancé, the Cult’s Billy Duffy.
Ozzy was holding court in the corner. I made a beeline: “Ozzy! I know your son Loui! I’m from Birmingham too!”
He pointed to his cheek. I leaned down and gave him a kiss.
Kelly arrived just in time to roar: “No, you fucking idiot, he’s deaf! Speak into his ear. He’s pointing to his ear!”
Once again, an Osbourne nearly made me cry… but this time, it ended in laughter.
Ozzy burst out in hysterics at my awkward cheek-kiss mix-up, and I did too. Then he pulled me in for a proper hug… warm, big, real… and told me how lovely it was to meet one of Loui’s friends and how much he missed our hometown. Despite being a living legend, he gave me his time, like I was the only person in the room.
And then, like some benevolent rock god with a Brummie heart, he started introducing me around the room to the other British rock gods… Billy Idol, Billy Duffy, Steve Jones, Donovan Leitch, Robbie Williams… I felt like Alicia Silverstone in an Aerosmith video, totally out of place, slightly in awe, but absolutely living for it.
Ozzy was generous, gentle, and genuinely lovely in the moments that mattered.
But what I loved most, what made me adore him, was how much he loved where he came from. He never stopped talking about Birmingham in LA. I mean never.
Whether he was on TV, in magazine interviews, or backstage at some Hollywood mansion, he’d drop it in: “Birmingham this, Birmingham that…” Like a proper Midlands missionary, with a Brummie accent, a leather trench coat, and a heart still firmly planted back home.
I always seem to be drawn to patriots. If someone loves their country, or their town, I love them. It’s why I loved Ozzy. He was loud about it. He made it cool. He put Birmingham on the world stage and then brought it home. And I’m so grateful he got to move back and spend his final years here, ending with that unforgettable last concert at Villa Park, our home turf. 45,000 fans in person. Millions more online. Ozzy going out like only Ozzy could.
I texted Loui last night. I said, when a dad dies, we often type “he was a legend.” But Loui’s dad really was. Not just for his music. But for the way he made people feel. For the way he wore his roots like a crown.
Rest in power, Ozzy. Birmingham’s proudest son. You showed us it’s okay to be different, it’s glorious to be loud, and it’s beautiful to come home.
Thank you for everything. Thank you for loving Britain and Birmingham as much as I do.
By Claire Bullivant
